


Birds of a Feather

by TexasDreamer01



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: AE!verse, F/M, Kisara headcanons, Mizushipping, Multi, Outcastshipping, Pre-Series, love triangle AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-01
Updated: 2014-10-01
Packaged: 2018-02-19 07:51:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2380565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TexasDreamer01/pseuds/TexasDreamer01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Flock together. There are, however, many feathers. And sometimes one home is only a jumping stone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Birds of a Feather

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Akanue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akanue/gifts).



> Kisara is an underdeveloped oddball. Of startling looks (and disposition), but little background to be found. I'm using a theory that she's actually from somewhere in northern Europe - say, of Norse origin - not only because of her looks, but because of a Blue Eyes White Dragon support card from the TCG that looks very, very similar to her: [Maiden with Eyes of Blue](http://yugioh.wikia.com/wiki/Maiden_with_Eyes_of_Blue).
> 
> The character's dress is highly stylized, and the decorations on the dress are similar to how the BEWD is, if abstract in design. Here's the English card description:
> 
> "When this card is targeted for an attack: You can negate the attack, and if you do, change the battle position of this card, then you can Special Summon 1 "Blue-Eyes White Dragon" from your hand, Deck, or Graveyard. During either player's turn, when a card or effect is activated that targets this face-up card (except during the Damage Step): You can Special Summon 1 "Blue-Eyes White Dragon" from your hand, Deck, or Graveyard. You can only use 1 "Maiden with Eyes of Blue" effect per turn, and only once that turn."
> 
> Similar to how Kisara behaves and reacts in canon, no? Because of this, I'm working off the idea that she was captured/enslaved/traded all the way down to Egypt. It doesn't... mesh very well with northern European history (and the popular, but quickly on its way to being disproven, idea that Europe is only a few thousand years old compared to the eight to ten thousand that is Egypt).
> 
> I also use "Bekurae" instead of "Bakura," because it is a fanon theory that is gaining popularity - rightly so, given the research for it - based on the morphology of Egyptian. The pronounciation is about the same, but the main difference is the elimination of the English's tendency to be rougher on the vowels - the "e" is more rounded, the "ae" more of a soft "ah" (which I'm sure gives leave to another popular fanon difference - Bakurah).

She stuffed herself into the tight corner, wincing as shards of rock bit into her feet, and through the thin shift to her skin. It was a small hiding spot - only half a day's walk outside of the now-blazing town. Even now, her tear-blurred eyes spotted the fire on the horizon, peeking as it was between the craggy hills.

Hiccuping a sigh, the girl scrubbed at her face with a dirty wrist. The boy who had helped her this far (gods take him! What a brave soul, to free her in such a daring manner!) was long off in the distance, persuaded as he had been to sequester her away in the outskirts of the desert.

Remembering her place, she swallowed a gulp in suppressed fright. Already the sun was setting; as hot as the day had been, nights were ever frigid, and when the river wasn't coaxing the crops to fruition, the sun abandoned its worshipers to a bitter chill with a strength that would leave others to wonder at Ra's kindness.

She snorted, "As if these brutes would dare to think differently." It was a soothing balm to make such an acrid statement. After her so-called "warm" welcome to this land - ostensibly barren, and devoid of all the creature comforts her home land provided - her dignity and pride had been ruthlessly squashed under the heels of those trading her, content to make a display of her unusual features.

A scowl bit at her features. Compared to the respect and high-standing she had - almost equal to the chief! - in her tribe, casting light on the fates their gods had deigned to give them, her new life in this land (Khemet, if one trader had been right, and what a... creative name. "Black lands!" It seemed as if not even their gods could do better, naming the country after the look of the very earth they lived upon) was nigh on abominable. The vision of her home, with crunching snow underfoot, muffled by leather boots, the greenest trees she had ever seen towering above her forced a sigh out of her. It neatly dissolved the building tension that had been allowed to build.

"Calm yourself," The girl chided, remembering the scoldings her elders gave her for being too prideful, "Bitterness does not become a Seer."

Or a training Seer, anyway. She flicked a pebble from her perch, scanning the surroundings. _It's not like I'll be able to go back_ , She thought mournfully, climbing down from the natural-made alcove at sighting a clump of greenery some ways off. It was slow going, picking her way through a path of disconcertingly-sharp stone chips, _Just as well. They probably chose a new girl already. I wonder who..._

The musings carried her through the small trip. None of the bushes looked too dead-like, to her delight, and she clasped her hands to deliver a swift prayer of thanks - and apology, to the local gods whose names she remembered, for her impudence scant moments earlier.

Picking her way carefully over, the girl discovered a patch of dark earth from where the scraggly bushes were sprouting. Her long, unusually pale, hair was done up in a quick braid, and tossed over her shoulder, she knelt. The dirt was sandy and gritty, catching under her nails as she pawed at the ground. Getting deeper proved the ground muddy. It drenched the ragged edges of her sleeves, making them drag with the weight of the mud. A breath escaped her at the welcome relief from her sunburned skin - no matter if she was to be fighting the night soon. This place never got as cold as home, but she feared that her time here was making her bend to the will of the desert.

She swiped her face in the crook of her elbow, sniffling, _Almost there, now..._ Indeed, rocking back on her haunches to observe her handiwork saw that the pathetic-looking furrow had deepened to almost the depth of her hand. Determination renewed at the sight, the girl huddled back over her work, pushing handfuls of slick mud to the rim of the little hole.

It wasn't until the sun had just finished setting - the moon had taken its place, and she muttered another prayer for that small blessing - that her grimy, raw hands touched to now-growing puddle of water. The discovery was almost enough to make her topple over with relief, and a leaf was quickly torn from one bush, trembling fingers folding it into a rough bowl shape.

Each sip was sweet, sweet relief to her parched throat. She drank greedily, pressing and scooping at the ground with fervor to squeeze as much as possible from the hollow. Her stomach growled at the cool liquid. Pressing a hand to it, grimacing in discomfort at how deep she could go, thumb brushing at the unsettling knot that was the bottom of a rib, "I'm sorry. Better water than nothing. I fear we will have to go without something more substantial for a while."

Her stomach growled again, making her lips twitch into a wan smile at the imagining that it was giving sorrowful agreement. The leaf-ladle was tossed to the ground. Until she learned which plants were edible, anything she had not memorized would need to be avoided. Standing was tedious, but she struggled to her feet gamely, wobbling only a little. There was nothing suitable to hold onto; she planted her hands on bony hips, fingers knotting on the loose curve of fabric the only sign that anything had been amiss.

Fire. She needed a fire, lest she be left to the mercies of the nighttime desert. There was shelter enough in this rocky outcropping, so she needn't worry too much about the wind. No, the beasts roaming about were enough trouble.

Her hair had escaped from the loose braid. She huffed good-naturedly, brushing her hands on a relatively clean part of her shift, deciding upon a random direction to start exploring in as her fingers picked apart the locks of hair to re-braid them into something sturdier. The setting sun painted the rocks into a beauty her home surely didn't have - and for one of the few times since she had stepped foot on this foreign land, was rendered breathless by what it chose to reveal to her.

She didn't know when her eyes had shuttered, breathing in the unique smell of dusk slipping away to night. Her very soul felt keen to growl deep within her chest - a rapt and primal purr of approval, the girl could almost feel the caress of the sun's rays as it slipped below the horizon.

"Pretty, isn't it?"

A shriek startled out of her. Turning toward the source of the voice told her nothing.  _What was that?_ Her heart hammered in her chest, and she was torn between fleeing and investigating the source of her fright. She gulped, eyes turning about the scenery, suddenly unsure if she was truly alone. Had one of the men found her? Was she now quarry, to be toyed with before capture?

"Calm down, girlie," The same voice broke into her thoughts with an irritated snap. Indignancy was now coupled with the fear, and when a figure came forward from a shard of shadow on a horse - how had she not heard  _that_? - it was a given a target for her sour look. A penetrating glare received her gaze; her shoulders drew back into a defiant stance at it, "What are you doing out in the middle of nowhere? The town is in the other direction."

"It's on fire," Her soft voice cut across the air between the like a whip, sardonic despite the pitch, "I would rather not."

 A bark of laughter greeted her wit. The horse moved forward with a snuffle of steamy breath, carrying its master toward her and closer into the pale rays of the waxing moon. She drew in a breath, flummoxed, "Y-your hair!"

The other - a boy, now, she could see, looking scant years older than her - leered at her in disdain, "You're one to talk, girlie," A hand waved in her direction. It glittered in the rising moonlight, bejeweled with gold and gems that refracted their colour onto the surroundings.  _Just who **is**_ _he?_  "Escape from somewhere? Or... Someone? Right into the desert. Smart of you, girlie, to trade one starvation for another."

She reared back at the piercing look, hating how he studied her so thoroughly. The girl frowned at his knowing, mocking tone; her body twisted, foot arched, and made as if to depart from his presence.

"If you do not wish to help me, then leave me be," Was her retort, tossed over a shoulder. She couldn't yet afford to take the chance (and yet, so desperately needed to gamble) that this stranger was offering. No matter how alike she and the scarred boy looked. A hand bunched the material about her thigh, out of sight from the stranger. Oh, where was her sweet saviour? Safer, no doubt, than she, "I've no use for liars and scoundrels."

"No use for a free meal?" He replied smoothly. Ears ringing with the teasing remark, the girl turned back, gaze harsh to his glittering eyes. A shrug accompanied the question, lips curling at her stiff countenance. His next words were drawled, tugging at his reins in a copy of the same gambit she had just made, "Of course... you  _would_ need to do your hunting yourself. I only have enough to feed me, but a knife is better than a stick, eh, girlie?"

"Kisara," She blurted out, hand twisting tighter on her shift, white-knuckled on the dingy linen at the uncertainty of what precisely sort of deal she had tacitly agreed to.

"Eh?"

"My name," The girl said, tilting her face up defiantly at him. Hopefully even the mud had dried by now, "It's Kisara."

His face broke into a slow grin, "Ahh..." How he managed a sweeping bow from atop a horse, she didn't know, "Kukuku. Kisara, then. I'm Bekurae. Welcome to Set's land."

 

* * *

 

Hunting by the moon was both harder and easier than by the sun.

On the one hand, there was not nearly enough light to see. But on the other, the light was soft enough to make subtle things gleam in a way they never would by day. The knife was familiar reassurance in her hand, handle of wrapped reed pressing grooves into her hand. A little slip of a thing - like her, the boy said.  _No_ , her mind asserted,  _Man. Young man_.

Grasping the bronze weapon tighter, her mind traced over the memory of Bekurae. No matter his expression, those cool gray eyes were steady in the haunting veil thrown over them; even humor failed to erase those shadowy depths. He seemed to be the same age as the other... boy? Was the one who set her free also a boy, if this one - her other saviour, it seemed - claimed to be the age appropriate to a man?

She shuddered lightly. Men, both, then. Young men, and she naught but a budding woman. Not even ripe enough to be taken seriously. How strange the effects of the desert must be, for it to age these people so young.

Perhaps it was the sun. That which wilted skin mercilessly and gave blessings to crops in turns was an enigma to her. Here, it was so vastly different from her home's, with its gentle light that only scorned a person if they were fool enough to rampage about, homeless, for days on end. What would be the damage of a summer is the effects of a mere hour. Sometimes even in the breathy hours after dawn. The girl nodded to herself, eyes catching upon a mound of dirt. That would make sense - if a home scalds one so ruthlessly, then one must be ruthlessly scalding to combat it.

As she approached the lump of earth (a burrow, and hopefully with a resident, her stomach rumbled eagerly), a pair of eyes flashed across her mind. Blue, and so clean, too; a lagoon encapsulated in a dirtied, brave, courteous... man.

A man, yes. One just as affected by his home as the other. Her mind hummed contentedly, remembering the feel of rippling skin, partnered with rough cloth to try and hide solid planks of muscle. She had not recollected much from that rapid flight of terror, save for the indelibly-marked sensation of being pulled closer to avoid falling off the stolen mare.

She sighed, breath whooshing out of her lungs in nostalgia, unconsciously edging into a rumbling purr at the memories. It was too loud, unfortunately, and the hare she had been attempting to catch startled out of its slumber. The girl cursed.

 

* * *

 

This man was different. Oh, there were similarities - each had the familiar dips that starvation wrought upon all bodies, broad shoulders and calloused hands.

But it was the differences that fascinated her. Where one would have an elegantly-curved collarbone, another would have deep furrows, scars and nicks littering tanned skin. Knotted and ill-cut hair where there would otherwise be fragrant, brushed locks. A polite sparkle of humor that was achingly absent in curious, hardened eyes.

She had an upsetting lack of experiences to draw upon for one, but a growing plethora to let herself be swallowed in the other. It was easy to point out that the shallow curl of Bekurae's ear made his hands clench about her hips, a muttered, fond curse spilling from his lips. Or precisely how each finger smoothed over her pale flesh with an intense gaze coupled with them. For each moment spent in this half-tamed, desert dweller's arms, her heart thudded dully. Never mistake it for lack of love or affection - the girl had ample room in her heart to love this grief-riddled man that had welcomed her into his life with a leer and a quip. If nothing worse ever came to pass, she could happily spend her days with this liar and scoundrel.

That did not mean she was at home. Days had passed and broiled into years, nothing to show for it except for the waxing of her body and the occasional reddening thereof (which seemed to never grow as dark as Bekurae's, strangely enough). The smell of ever-green trees and the feel of snow crunching under leather boots melted away, to be replaced with brilliant sunrises and the shimmer of sand.

What made her ache and stare off into the distance with a growing pit of melancholy was the haunting remembrance of another man. It wormed guilt into her heart, deadening more sparks of joy even as she laughed and smiled with her lover.

"I need to attend to something," The woman broached one evening over the crackling fire that delivered their meal for the night. The flooding season was approaching; it was now an engrained habit to smear her fatty fingers upon parched lips to prevent chapping. Years of dwelling here had proven beneficial in more ways than one - words came easily, nearly equal to her prowess in her native tongue, somehow not forgotten and left to ruins in all this time.

His answer was given in the form of a resigned sigh. She set aside the remnants of the meal, curling into the other, idly sucking off the excess grease from her hand. He caught a wrist, drawing it closer to him in a silent question. Arms looped around her slim waist when she scooted onto his lap. It wasn't until their merrily-burning hearth had subsided into simmering embers that Bekurae spoke, "... How long will you be gone?"

"I... I don't know," The very words were heavy in the like-minded resignation, making her burrow deeper into the safe ensconcement that had become such a comfortable abode. She pressed her cheek against the hollow of his shoulder, "But I know I need to."

Another sigh, one that made her grieve in the corner of her heart that could only ever be this thief's, "I understand," Of course he would. She thinks he would be the only one who ever could, for this, "Try to stay safe, alright?"

Her wry grin was watery, "I will if you will."

"Of course I will!" The shadows were back in his playful gaze, obscured by the squeeze of her waist, his other hand gesturing dramatically, "I'm the King of Thieves!"


End file.
